


Sherlock's star

by AmyWings



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Reveal, Can't reveal too much, Comfort/Angst, Feelings, Kidnapping, M/M, Question - Freeform, Unfolding story, cases
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-02-22 19:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13174071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyWings/pseuds/AmyWings
Summary: "Find the answers and I'll give you the question."Will Sherlock manage to deduce the secret code leading to the hardest case of his career: John?EDIT: CURRENTLY ON HIATUS BUT I AM NOT ABANDONING THIS FANFICTION THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE !





	1. 16 15 15 18 0 10 15 8 14

The wooded door slammed hard into the already butchered wall decorated with care by bullet holes and all kinds of incomprehensible drawings. Some weak pieces of paper that barely held thanks to crooked pins flew in the air and landed on the couch of a now quiet room that followed the outburst of noise. The atmosphere was heavy.

On the edge of the old carpet was then standing a tall man in a long black cloak, perfectly still and listening. His mouth was twitching in apprehension and his chapped lips let uneven breaths in and out of his throat. As if his whole body was aching, his neck seemed to give him a hard time when he slowly turned his head to the right side, looking at the yellow smiley face on the wall. He felt as if it was laughing at him.

Anger suddenly took over his other feelings he was trying to push deep down himself and finally, he called – or more likely yelled:

“Mrs. Hudson?”

King silence answered him yet again. His cheeks flushed, far from being embarrassed or coy, he felt himself losing control. And if Sherlock Holmes hated something above all, it was exactly that.

His legs did the action before his brain could process it. With no warning, he found himself stopped by the kitchen table. He winced in pain, before his gaze explored each corner of the room, locking eyes with no wrinkly lady.

“MRS. HUDSON?” He shouted one more time, throwing out all theories of ‘staying quiet in case people were still hanging out somewhere’.

Not thinking twice, he yanked open his bedroom door but no one was there – except something wasn’t right. Arms frozen in the air, he heard it. A very faint moan.

_Where is it coming from?_

“Mrs. Hudson. _God_.”

The old lady was tied up on the bathroom floor in front of the bath, legs up to her chin, a thick piece of scotch tape covering her mouth. Sherlock fell to his knees and quickly helped her out. She sobbed on his shoulder when her mouth got freed from silence.

“Oh Sherlock, thank you, thank you.”

The blue eyed man looked neutral but slightly relieved. After letting her cry for what seemed like eternity according to him, he took her by the shoulders and asked in a raspy but clear voice:

“What happened?”

He refrained himself from rolling his eyes when the woman took a couple seconds to put herself together before speaking, but listened carefully to what she had to say.

“I was cooking dinner. I was just about to go get milk in the fridge-”

“To the point, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock said dryly, on the edge.

She looked at him, used to being cut in the middle of speaking but still feeling a bit overwhelmed whenever he did it.

“John...”

For a second, Sherlock felt his guts drop but he came back to his senses in a flash.

“...was sitting in his armchair. I couldn’t do anything, I...”

“Mrs. Hudson, for Christ’s sake, to the point!” He snapped a second time, unintentionally squeezing his fingers into the poor lady’s flesh.

“They took John!”

“WHO ARE ‘THEY’?”

“I don’t know!” Cried the landlady, shook and disoriented.

Sherlock calmed down and sighed, taking note of his own poor behaviour that had gotten him a reputation, and helped her get on her feet, apologizing behind a warmer pair of eyes despite the icy blue they sported.

He grabbed her waist and while walking back to the living room, dead serious, he mumbled:

“Well ‘they’ better be prepared.”

The old lady looked up to him, torn between shivering from his chilling voice and smirking because the famous Sherlock Holmes was about to save the day once again. And boy was this case the hardest one to date.

 

 _~_ _Earlier that_ _week_ _~_

 

“Come on, it’s fairly easy.”

“Sherlock-”

“Obvious, really.”

“Sherlock-”

“I’m impressed. Witnessing obliviosity first hand, quite unbelievable. How can you possibly not-”

“WILL YOU SHUT UP NOW?” John snapped while looking daggers at his partner in crime who had a bit of a tendency to irritate the crap out of him.

Sherlock froze in the air, hands holding a minuscule jar filled with a translucent liquid, and glanced at the smaller guy.

“Thank you.”

John’s words cut the air. Sherlock let no sign of a possible emotion coming out, but inside he knew John’s anger wasn’t just about him showing off.

Since he’d came back from the dead, it was hard for the former soldier to forgive and forget. Although it had been a couple months now, tension could still be felt between the two of them. The one we called a genius was trying his best to be as “non-genius” as possible, but his nature wasn’t just going to disappear on its own. And even if John would never admit it, Sherlock wouldn’t be Sherlock without the annoying ass mister know it all behaviour he had always had.

“Oookay...” Lestrade intervened slowly, looking at them both while taking his gloves off. “Poison, then.”

“Yes.” Sherlock rumbled, his jaw twitching, not even bothering to look at the policeman.

“Suicide?”

“No.”

“No?”

Sherlock turned finally.

“You see, but you don’t observe. I’m sending you all you need soon.”

And in a cloak’s shadow, he was gone.

Lestrade sighed heavily, staring at the water leaks that covered the room’s walls – or what was left of them.

“One day, my brain will stop working altogether. I’m just spending my entire time trying to understand him rather than the case.”

His phone suddenly went off. When he looked at it, a file from Sherlock was waiting to be opened.

“How on earth does he do that...”

John giggled, his shoulders bouncing.

“Believe me, I’ve been asking myself the same question for years.”

 

“So tell me, John. How is she?”

John, who had just taken his jacket off of himself, turned to the curly haired man that had just landed in his armchair, flabbergasted.

“I’m not sure what-”

“You don’t always answer your phone calls or return them anymore as if you didn’t want to interrupt a conversation, you look tired and stressed out but not the kind that tells one you’ve been working hard, no, the kind that takes place in one’s brain and heart, your agenda is now always on you meaning you don’t want to miss a RDV and when I’m asking where you’ve been you always answer the same thing. ‘Out’.”

John sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, and I’m just assuming it’s a girl, considering-”

“Emily. Her name is Emily.”

“So tell me again. How is she?”

“Since when are you interested in relationships?”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to small talk.” Answered the tall guy from his chair, not in the least interested in the answer.

“Hm. She’s nice. I met her two weeks ago in an antique shop.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and focused back on his science book he was now reading.

“Dull.”

“Everything and anyone is dull according to you, Sherlock Holmes. Why would my date not be, huh?”

“Very few things matter to me...” He answered, mumbling more than anything.

John’s eyebrows frowned. No one would see any difference with the man’s normal behaviour, but John could. He knew he’d been hard on him since his...return, but he still cared about his well-being, probably much more than Sherlock himself.

“Are you alright?” He interrogated.

Sherlock looked like somebody had just punched their fist in his stomach and twisted his organs with it. His face froze, but only his jaw was twitching. No one could tell if he was sad, or furious.

He then proceeded to speak quietly and dryly at first, and more and more detached as he went.

''Feelings altogether are utterly unnecessary and a waste of time. Why give over-importance to an abstract subject very few people know how to actually handle in the first place anyway. Why give significance to chemicals reacting in a somewhat so-called blissful mess inside of one's brain when one could be focusing on a task much more crucial or meaningful." The tall man queried, pointing his book, irritated. "Furthermore, beyond their annoyance and quite frankly repulsive behaviour, couples seem to only bring each others down by lack of clarity. Relationships may feel -perhaps- charming, but like any drug users, clients usually end up intoxicated for good and the weight of their grey matter ends up plummeting pitifully.''

The room suddenly got filled with a disconcerted silence that rapidly became heavy.

"Sherlock, I only asked you how you were feeling. I expected a little less dictionary and a little more easy access answers. But thanks for being a slightly obnoxious cocky killjoy."

The detective threw a barely visible smirk before his gaze focused back on his book.

"You're welcome."

 

~

 

Furious. He was furious. He let this happen. Why was he so hopelessly angry at himself? After all, it wasn’t exactly his fault either. Was it? Lost. His mind was rushing even quicker than it usually was.

_Focus. Focus harder. What happened. The case. The flying murderer. Solved. Text message. Tea. Trash. Fake conversations. A moment of inattention. Phone._

Two hands covering his temples. He didn’t care if people were staring at him strangely in the street. He was out of air. Breathing.

_Shadows. End of the day. Rushed to the hospital. No traces of blood on the sister’s t-shirt. Focus. Dark haired woman. No money. No time. Rushed back to Lestrade._

“BLOODY HELL!”

People seemed to froze. Sherlock was red, something was missing. Why couldn’t he figure out what happened to John? Surely something logical might have occurred for this situation to even be existing in his reality. And his reality was messed up.

Letting his heavy body slide down the grey and sad wall, he put his arms around his knees, losing himself in a deep train of thoughts only him seemed to see. Someone asked him something. He didn’t care. Parasites. They could have been sent straight to hell, he wouldn’t have moved a toe.

_Useful thinking. Was on a crime scene. No one else knew. But someone else knew. Obvious. How did they know and why would they do this? To test me? Distract me? Possible. Mean, but not far fetched. An enemy? Which one? Proceeding in order. Eliminating the obvious. Not Lestrade, not Mycroft. Sally? No. No one close would. Revenge? Perhaps. A bad case? Don’t think so. Managed to be traceless. If not, who? Surely someone who hates me. Someone who wants me put in a bad place. Plural? Maybe. They might be close. Watching me. Right now? Would be interesting. Room is neat. Mrs Hudson. She was shocked. If only she had been me, I could know how many they were, who’s the boss (if there with them), smell, height, maybe age had I heard their voices._

Thinking about Mrs Hudson made him realise it’d be probably best to return to 221B with her (and Lestrade who he sent) and be civilized for once. Plus, he needed thinking, deeply. And a cup of tea.

 

_~ Earlier that day ~_

 

“Lestrade called. Something about a mysterious death in a pit and a sister who can’t stop crying.”

Sherlock sighed. He was bored. No interesting case for the past few weeks. What were murderers thinking? Surely not about him.

Sat in his armchair, eyes closed, hands intertwined in front of him, suited up, he figured lightening hitting him would be better than solving this dull case but on the other hand, he couldn’t stand doing nothing anymore. He had to move. For his own sanity (and John’s, who had to bare with him).

Maybe coming back to cocaine wouldn’t be so bad after all. He opened his eyes, brushing his thought away. What would his brother dear think? He smirked. Maybe, just maybe, would he get some satisfaction from his reaction, but John’s….not quite.

“Fine.”

John looked away from his computer on which he was writing. He was surprised. He knew the detective was bored, but still, him wanting this case was a whole new level of boredom.

“Fine? As in, you’re going?”

Sherlock stood and turned to John’s raised eyebrows.

“Aren’t we?”

He sounded genuinely taken aback. Cases were usually taken by the both of them, not just him. On his own.

“I feel a little sick, honestly. I need to rest a day or two. I don’t think it’s gonna be much of a problem for you to solve this case without me, is it?’

He marked a point. But the doctor always helped him state the obvious he sometimes needed to be stated out loud. Without mentioning his medical crucial point of view. John might have not known this from his confessions – or lack of thereof – but he was much more useful to him than just staying by his side stroking his ego whenever he solved a case. He managed to help him stay focused and find the tiny detail that would make it all much clearer.

“Alright.”

He might have shown a bit too much of his disappointment because John intensely frowned. It didn’t resemble Sherlock. Not in the slightest.

‘What’s the matter with you?”

Sherlock’s body got stiff and awkward. He didn’t want to talk. Not with him. Not right now.

John had been pretty harsh on him since he’d come back from the dead. Understandingly so. But Sherlock wasn’t happy about it. He had tried acting nicer than usual, that didn’t suit him nor did it look real. In fact, it made it all the more uncomfortable and fake and neither of them wanted that. He tried ignoring it, pretending not to hear John’s blames and disappointed tones at times but eventually he got tired of it as well. The more he ignored, the more John would make it obvious. Pretending that he wasn’t touched by it at all would have been an erroneous statement but at this point in time, he didn’t know what was left except anger. He was angry. Not necessarily at John’s behaviour, but himself, mainly. He still was coping with the pain he saw in John’s eyes when finally he showed himself to him, the profound sadness covering relief or happiness he might have also felt that day. His fingers tensing, his tired features, lack of sleep, insomnia most likely. His pulse rising, his cheeks getting redder as he realised who was standing in front of him and what it all meant. The flash of pure hate and disgust followed by resort and incomprehension in his blue eyes, the tiny brown splashes that graced his pupils getting darker by the second. This memory was staining his brain. He had loved being reunited with John, but he had hated every second of it. He was responsible for his pain, and this was more than enough reasons for Sherlock to be angry. As much as he loathed feelings, regret was consuming him every day, in his dark silence. He deserved John’s harshness.

But here he was, standing still, trying to act his guilt away.

“Nothing.” He simply answered.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. From the outside, he seemed nonchalant, slightly annoyed. But was John really duped?

_He’s not. Eventually, we’ll have to talk it out. Not now. Later._

And he stormed out of the flat, a slightly worried and hopeful gaze following his silhouette.

 

“Body’s temperature is lower than normal. Traces of a pocket knife – perhaps Kershaw – on the ankles and wrists. Skin under her fingernails, she tried to fight back. No jewlery, no bra. She was most likely a free spirit, student, 23 or 24, her mother died recently (fresh tattoo on her side with a date, no a boyfriend’s birthday, she’s single, perhaps not even straight). I’d say she died unexpectedly.” He paused. “Where is her sister? Hospital? She needs some help with her shoulder.”

Lestrade looked agape, as per usual.

“How did you know…?”

“Obvious.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He got it out of his pocket as he proceeded to explain.

“Oh yeah, she’s the killer. Arrest her. She has probably-”

The tall man stopped abruptly. His face dropped. Lestrade worried.

“Are you okay?”

The soft wind brushing through his dark curls couldn’t sooth the heat that started consuming his body. For once, in a long time, he was confused.

The text read:

_"MISS ME?"_

But his faced turned rapidly to utter fear. Right after the first text, another one popped up. A cypher.

16 15 15 18 0 10 15 8 14

Child’s play. First letter of the alphabet equals 1. Last equals 26. 0, a space.

“ _POOR JOHN.”_

_John. Oh, no._


	2. Emotional data

****_Emotional data transported from neuron to neuron. An MRI would show amygdala activating. Chills, from brain to nerves, nerves to brain. Reaction. Easy: fear. Cause: post traumatic stress. Bit dramatic. Anxiety: perhaps. Method: breathing. Boring. Doesn’t work. Need actions._

Perfectly still, Sherlock was lying on his bed, his hands rested on his chest, eyes closed. He looked calm, asleep, when in reality his brain was about to implode from unfinished reasoning. The question was simple. It had been simple, since day one. October 13th. Two days ago.

_Why?_

Suddenly, his eyes opened. Something felt wrong. An intuition. He never had those, everything always had to make perfect sense, there was no room for a feeling or a faithful wish. But he knew intuitions weren’t to be taken lightly. It was, after all, informations his brain was sending him too fast for him to comprehend. He never had those, because he usually comprehended ahead of the information, most the times.

_Interesting._

Jumping on his feet, he stood a second, listening. And there he heard a noise.

_Mrs. Hudson asleep. Can’t be her._

His heartbeat accelerated despite not wanting too. What if-

_Not John. Not his pace, not his way of proceeding. Left leg slightly heavier than the right. This is someone I don’t know. A man._

Trying his best not to make any noise, Sherlock went out of the bedroom, his gun he grabbed on his night stand at the ready.

_Pointless. Gone._

Indeed, when he entered the living room, nobody was there. They had managed to escape.

Standing still, an eyebrow raised, he looked for a detail. Something stolen, moved, broken or-

_Added._

A letter was rested on top of his computer. Carefully putting his gun down, he straightened his blue silky robe, forced to admit he was nervous.

_Wet hands, pupils dilated, emotional data again. Focus._

Wanting a better view of the letter without having to touch it yet, he knelt down slowly, avoiding moving it with the sudden rush of air his movement created. What he was facing was incredibly simple, but ô- so complicated. A simple off-white card, with a big question mark drew on its front page. And indeed, questions arose. He took it, turned it, nothing. Just a giant question mark. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He smelled it, then looked at its size.

“One millimetre thick, five and a quarter by seven inches, probably between 5 and 7 grams, paper is new but somehow feels old, coarse, off-white but tends towards yellowish, not from the UK, will have to make proper researches but probably from southern countries. Marker is thick, jet black, a steady hand, confident, direct, probably a man. Definitely a man.”

He stopped, realising the weight of the letter. Slightly too heavy compared to the amount of ink it contained. Surely, something else had to be written on this.

“Who are you talking to, Sherlock?”

Sherlock jumped. Lost in his thought process – that he unconsciously shared with the outside world – he hadn’t heard Mrs. Hudson coming in.

“It’s awfully late, shouldn’t you be sleeping?” She asked, although awfully late was debatable _(midnight)_.

Sherlock took the letter in his hands, showing it to the landlady. She gasped.

“Is this what I think it is?” She asked, unsure.

Sherlock smiled. He was an _awful_ lot fond of her.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson. I don’t need sleep. What I need, is a UV light.”

“Why?” She asked again, grabbing her night robe tighter, her skin getting colder.

“Fluorescent.” He started, agitating himself, looking for a light he stole from Lestrade a couple months ago. “Detergent, tonic water, vitamin 12 dissolved in vinegar, name it. 380 nm wavelength. Narrow, too narrow for the eye.”

She looked muddled. Sherlock stopped to look at her in disbelief, his arms in the air.

“A black light, Mrs Hudson. UV markers.”

“Oh, you mean, there’s transparent writing on this card?” She questioned approaching the table.

“Yes.” The detective answered, both out of relief and satisfaction. He had finally found the little black light he had lost behind his skull friend under a seemingly destroyed blanket. “And we’re about to find out what is written on it.”

 

“No, I can’t!” Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade had never seen him this angry. The atmosphere inside the lab was as cold as the bodies stored in the morgue right up the hallway.

After passing the card through the black light, a purely frustrating sentence -or more so a couple of words - awaited to be seen by his blue eyes: “ _MISS HIM?_ ”.

_Mindblowing irritation. Nerve cells triggered. Response within medial frontal cortex. From a cognitive neuroscience perspective: anger._

Leaning over his microscope, Sherlock calmed himself down, incapable of being steady with his shaky hands.

Lestrade yawned, not too pleased to being awoken at this time. Sherlock shushed him.

“From previous data, I’d say this paper and ink were both coming from or made in Afghanistan. Of course.”

_Of course. John. It’s all about him. Why. Why about him. Why taking him from us, from me, from the world. What’s the point. What’s the purpose. Moriarty is dead. Whoever this is, it’s a dangerous game you’re playing._

“Why would they leave you that letter? There’s no info on it. It’s clueless and traceless.”

“Oh it isn’t, Lestrade. He knows what he’s doing. I don’t know what this all means yet, but I’m going to find out, really soon.”

“He?”

“Oh yes.”

And as he was researching on his computer the precise name of the paper his hands were holding, pressing ‘enter’, his screen went black. Immediately, the pair winced in pain as an atrociously loud and screechy voice appeared. It was laughing. Then it became slower, clown-like. The voice talked as if it was speaking to a bunch of dumb and naive children. It said over and over:

"Mind catching me? Find the answers and I’ll give you the question!"

Then a kiss sound, as if the clown blew one on Sherlock, and nothing.

“Well. He doesn’t lack originality.” Lestrade giggled, trying to make a light of the situation.

But Sherlock wasn’t laughing. Not a bit. He looked stiff, serious, increasingly fulminating, knuckles becoming white and eyes black from rage. He couldn’t believe someone was putting this all back on the table. Moriarty was dead, yet a doppelgänger took his place. They had to be affiliated with him, a fan of his “work” maybe, another psychopath ready to spill blood and confusion. But Sherlock wasn’t ready for that. He had just barely been back from the dead and here he was, head over a card taunting him yet again and forcing him to pinch his nose bridge.

In a dangerously low and raspy voice, he mumbled:

“I’ll give you answers. Oh, believe me, I will.”

 

_Waiting. They’re making me wait. They know I can’t “play” without them. They know it drives me nuts no knowing. Probably delighted by the sight of me losing it. I won’t. It doesn’t. It doesn’t drive me nuts, because I know what they’re doing. I’ll patiently wait for them to give me clues – because that’s what they want. They want me to find clues, to answer them. Why. Why do I need to play a game now. John, of course. Everything is centred around him. Give me the answers, I’ll give you the question. If I answer them, they’ll help me find him, surely. They’re smart. They know I’ll do anything to protect him. There it is, emotional data. A practical data in exchange of an emotional data. Smart. Cruel, but smart. Very childish and disappointing at the same time, though. Lack of imagination so far. Torturing me and watching me dance, that’s what they want. They’re laughing right now, he is. He. Most likely. Give me the answer. Me. Moriarty is dead. Who is me. Me is them, but they’re not me. I’ll outsmart them. I’ll burn them. Moriarty. You didn’t manage to burn the heart out of me, did you, I outsmarted you, in the end. You were doomed from the start. Finally, a rival capable of your madness. But I won. And you lost. And they’ll lose. Whoever they are. I’m waiting for you. I’ll sit there, quietly, don’t worry. I’ll burn you._

Sherlock’s eyes opened for the first time in 16 hours. Sitting on the hard wood floor in a lotus position, he hadn’t moved since he came back from the lab. No sleep, no food, nothing but him, himself, and his thoughts. Nothing out of the extraordinary, actually.

_John would hate me doing this._

But Sherlock opened his eyes. Because of him. Because of guilt. Alone on the floor, he didn’t have to face anyone, and could let go a little. Let go and lose himself into the darkest parts of his mind. The part in his mind palace that suffers, that holds emotional data. He always thought this room was the messiest. Data everywhere, out of drawers, reflecting on the single mirror that judged him everytime he entered it. So he stayed out of it as much as possible. But here, in the dark, his mind palace was like a maze, and he couldn’t escape it. To get out, he always had to go past this door. He used to call it the door of shame, because everytime he entered, he felt himself losing control, and according to Sherlock, losing control was shameful.

_Human, but despicable._

John. The man he hurt. His flatmate. His friend. The only human being that made him feel less alone in this world. He failed him. He could have saved him. He owed him so much. He had saved him so many times already, it wasn’t fair. He knew, Moriarty. He knew all along, John was his greatest strength as much as his weakest point.

Sherlock breathed in, and out, trying to get the toxins out. Or maybe he should get toxins in. Glancing over at the table where both his cigarettes and box containing the last grams of cocaine were standing, he bit his lip.

_John would hate me doing this._

No. He needed concentration. He needed to be strong, like he always had been. But something wasn’t right. Guilt was rising in his chest like a refreshing breeze before a storm. He failed him.

Closing his eyes, his child self was trying to get out of the room of shame. The glass door nob stuck in his hands, he was screaming, shouting for help, crying out his desperation. Mycroft was right, he wasn’t as smart as he thought. If he had been, John would be here, yelling at him to get something else than toxins into his system.

His eyes swung open like the door in his mind palace. He was pale, covered in sweat, and freezing.

_You won’t win. I promise, John, I’ll find you._

 

“You look funny with your deerstalker. Let me take it off so that the world can see the whole in your head.”

John takes my hat off, and a gaping hole so large one could see the sky through it appeared. I smile. Somehow, this is funny. I want John to show the world how big the hole is.

“Sherlock!”

It’s Lestrade.

“Would you look at the camera?”

“What for?”

I don’t understand.

“It’s for Moriarty.”

Oh, I see. I don’t mind.

Birds are tweeting next to me, on a bench. I wonder how I came here, there are no cabs in London today. It’s celebration day. Everyone celebrates my death. I’m so pleased.

“Sherlock, please, stand up, I have troubles walking.”

It’s true. John is standing on one foot, the other one is stuck in a game trap, a hatch. The game is on. I find it funny somehow. It must hurt a lot, though. I think it used to be a cane.

“Where did you get that?” I ask.

I quite want one for myself. On such a day, it would make Lestrade’s pictures all the more interesting wouldn’t it.

“I didn’t get it. Someone got me. You know that.”

“How?”

“You did it to me.”

I feel sick. What does he mean, I did it? I don’t remember, I can’t remember. What’s happening.

“You hurt me Sherlock. You abandoned me in the forest like bait and made me swallow lies. You made me choke on lies and now I’m stuck and it hurts.”

I don’t recall any of those claims. I’m not a liar. I don’t want him hurt.

“Pity.” I say. I don’t know why, but I hated the sound of that.

He laughs. I’m puking blood. He’s laughing even more, I guess I should continue. Suddenly, everyone is laughing in a circle around me, the sky is orange and dull. Moriarty is smiling behind a window. I want his picture on my wall. I’m puking eyeball shaped biscuits now. I wonder how they got in here in the first place. Mrs Hudson’s new recipe doesn’t settle nicely in my stomach.

When I turn around, everyone’s gone. The earth is still, dark, lava is tracing its way like a snake between my legs on the ground. No more houses, no more Baker Street. I’m in a sort of hell, and Mycroft is holding a plush. My plush, from my childhood. It’s beheaded.

“You’re a bad little brother” he says to me in a friendly voice.

“But I didn’t steal it from you!” I shout, tears menacing to fall in the corners of my eyes.

“You’re a liar.”

“I am not.”

He lets the little rabbit fall in the lava. I feel like grabbing his head and doing the same thing with it.

“Brother mine, you are a liar. And I can’t trust you anymore. I thought you’d be more clever. But then again, I always said I was the smarter one, didn’t I?”

Where is John. I want him to tell him he’s wrong, but I can’t. I can’t find him. I can’t find him because he’s dead.

 

Sherlock woke up in a sweat, his heart beating fast. He never had nightmares. Not in a long time. He deeply wished it stayed that way.


	3. The game is on

“George.”

“ _It’s Greg. You know it’s Greg!_ ”

“Stop it.”

“ _Listen Sherlock, I’m just trying-_ ”

“I know what you’re trying to do. No use. I’m fine.”

“ _Okay, but-_ ”

“Bye.”

“ _Sher-_ ”

The echo of a buzzing electronic voice, a blue dressing gown flying in the air and then, nothing.

“That’s not very kind of you, Sherlock, I’ve seen you behave like more of a man.” Started Mrs Hudson as Sherlock sat down on the squishy sofa. “I know it’s hard for you, dear, but come on, it’s hard for everyone. Be more considerate, especially with people who want you to feel better.”

Sherlock sighed. Mrs Hudson was right, he was acting like a fool, being even more obnoxious and insensitive than usual. But his rising headache wasn’t helping. Massaging his temples, he tried to breathe in and out, as silently as possible, as steady as possible. That bloody headache. He was miserable and hated himself from being so. But why was _everyone_ throwing pity on him? He didn’t need _pity_ , he needed _facts_ , something to grab, something to start searching for, because while they were looking at him like a wounded bird, John was somewhere, probably alone and scared, waiting for him to come and save him. He counted on him, that much he was sure about, and so far he was not owning up to his promises of keeping him safe at all times. John was strong, mentally and physically, Sherlock didn’t doubt that one second. But no matter how strong, he was...human. Who knew what they were doing to him as he was thinking.

He had finally eaten something that morning. Nearly three days with no food had done some damage to his balance and sugar levels. A french toast with some butter, a cuppa and some biscuits Mrs Hudson had over-excitedly shoved down his throath when witnessing his improvements. And by improvements, she thought ‘ _sleeping more than two hours, keeping my walls safe of new bullets and being able to poop something out_ ”. Mrs Hudson had peculiar standards, no one knew if she was born like that or if the presence of a sociopath and an ex army doctor as tenants had anything to do with it. A bit of both was a safe bet.

 

The next day hadn’t brought much more, but his headache was gone. He had been out, wandering around, all morning, secretly hoping something would pop up. But nothing had happened, and his nerves started to crack a little.

Now he was sitting on his chair, hands joined in front of his nose, wondering how things could have just slipped out of his control so quickly. A week ago, he had been silently listening to John complaining that he had replaced the milk with a weird mixture of acid molecules separated from its components – an experiment he still hadn’t finished now that he thought about it. Surreal how his life had shifted from what he thought could compare to the closest he’d ever been content to this dark spiral of thoughts – and regrets. Maybe that was life’s way of reminding him that he never deserved John in the first place. Sherlock winced at the thought, letting go a bit. Bringing him into his life had been selfish and well, Sherlock was a selfish man. But closing his eyes, listening to the noises of London, peaceful, people passing by having no idea, he had never been closer to being devoted, as much as he directed pure hatred towards himself. That was the least he could do, after everything John had done for him. One day, perhaps, he’d tell him. When all of this would be over, and it would be eventually.

His phone buzzed on the table, making him contain a jolt and getting him to open his eyes and glance at the text. His elbows hurt from the position he had been in the past couple hours. He hadn’t noticed.

_1_ _0:37:_ _There’s a new case._ _\- Lestrade_

Sherlock sighed. He didn’t care about cases, as odd and unfamiliar as it was. Intertwined, slightly damp, his fingers tensed and his guts seemed to tighten. He’d really need to eat properly someday.

_1_ _0:38:_ _I promise it’s important. Please come!_ _\- Lestrade_

Sherlock angrily grabbed his phone.

_1_ _0:38:_ _Busy. - SH_

Before he could get up from his chair and pretend he had something to do or somewhere to go for his own sanity his phone buzzed furiously. He picked up.

“Lestrade, surely you can manage without me.”

“No, Sherl-”

“Dull already.”

“Sherlock, you listen to me now!”

The DI sounded really crossed, he had never quite heard him talk to him like that before.

“You bloody idiot! Do you really think I would bother you if it didn’t matter?”

Sherlock instantly thought of twelve different ways he could have but before he had the chance to unleash a come back out of pure childishness, Lestrade finished his sentence and his heart might just have skipped a beat.

“We haven’t _found_ a case, the _case_ found us, in the form of a card, with a big question mark on it. Rings a bell?”

The detective’s eyes started to blink out of order, lost, adrenaline pumping through his veins like a dose of ecstasy that would have popped in his stomach.

“What’s on it?” He asked slowly, half expecting a response leaning towards ‘nothing’. He then would conduct some further analysis and experiments and have a close look at it to register 267 pieces of information, but Lestrade surprised him – rare enough to mention it.

“An address, actually. Well, a location rather.”

He heard Lestrade take a deep breath but cut him off.

“No, that’s not where John is. He wants to play. Text me the location, I’ll be there immediately.”

“Good, I haven’t sent anyone yet, I thought you’d like to be there first.”

“Thank you.”

He heard a faint gasp from the DI. It wasn’t in Sherlock’s habits to thank him for, well, anything. But one could only be so kind, and he hung up on him, grabbing his coat with a grin on his face. Oh, finally, the game was on.

 

Sherlock threw his money at the cabbie and got out in a clock’s swirl, narrowing his eyes to protect them. It was a particularly sunny day. His skin looked even paler than usual under that light but his intentions weren’t nearly as weak as his body might have looked. The strength of his will outweighed any physical, superficial condition, and it’s with determination – but caution – that he approached the location.

“I thought you said you wanted me to be the first to arrive.” Sherlock said, taking his scarf off. “Oh, hello Molly. Did you try blush today?”

The forensic’s cheeks flushed to an even brighter shade of pink. Half-smiling and looking down at the grass, she asked:

“How did you notice-”

“I have eyes.” The detective answered bluntly under Lestrade’s slightly worried gaze. Sherlock wasn’t very good with people, he feared his next words – rightfully so. “You might reconsider the shade, it drains you. What are we looking at?”

Lestrade pinched his lips in a disapproving manner but didn’t say anything. The DI knew better. Molly breathed out an awkward laugh.

“You tell me. We’re somewhere near Strapson road, grass for as far as the eye can see, and a jar under a tree.

“A jar?”

“With a finger on it!” Molly hastened to say over-excitedly before she resumed to her former behaviour.

But that was enough for Sherlock to raise an eyebrow and go up the tiny hill under the tree. A normal, balding, bright orange and red ash tree. He hoped no evidence had vanished with the wind of october’s weather. He bent down, squatting and observing the jar as he took the gloves Lestrade offered to him.

“Interesting.”

The jar was of descent size. Glass, no inscriptions or detailing, closed shut with a silver lid. Free to be unscrewed.

“What does that mean?” Lestrade asked, his eyes narrowed by the sun. “It’s a finger, right, okay, so? Somebody cut someone else’s finger, and-”

“For God’s sake Lestrade, I’m concentrating.”

“Sorry.”

Lestrade backed down next to Molly, his arms balancing at his sides. She turned to him with a tiny comprehending smile before checking on Sherlock to see if he was looking at them. But his back was turned and she felt comfortable enough to whisper close to the DI’s ears.

“He really is hurting, isn’t he?”

Lestrade sighed heavily, looking down at the detective’s coat that lingered on the ground.

“I really hope this whole thing is about to end.”

“Me too. I’m concerned about him, you know. He...He’s not as tough as he looks, I’m sure. I don’t want-”

Lestrade grabbed Molly’s wrist lightly, flashing a deeply sorry look at her. He didn’t know how to tell her she should stop caring about him so much for her own well-being.

“Molly...”

“I don’t understand.”

Both the DI and the forensic looked at each other, stunned. They had never heard his tone so honest and his words so harsh. Bewildered, neither of them responded to the statement. Sherlock was now standing, the jar between his hands and his eyes, made transparent blue by the light, perplexed. The case, he could probably solve, no doubt. But the meaning…

“Why a finger?” He murmured to himself. “Molly.”

The lady blenched. Something about his tone made her very uneasy. It was low, raspy, and dark. She felt analysed just by listening to him speak and the feeling of discomfort increased as Sherlock stepped forward.

“There are no fingerprints on this finger.”

“Oh, hum, yeah, I sort of looked at it-”

“Remember three years ago, Martin Louis, retired from a science lab in Brixton?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“What was it about him that was interesting?”

“He-” She opened her mouth in understanding. “He had no fingerprints. Corrupted genes, medical condition called-”

“Adermatoglyphia. Very rare genetic disorder.”

“But here the situation is quite clear, isn’t it?” Lestrade intervened, muddled. “It’s not-”

“Yes, acid I know. But who sent me this case three years ago? A big “M” in Scotland Yard’s mail box? You all thought it was M for Martin but it was-”

“Moriarty.” Lestrade realised, closing his eyes as his head fell backwards.

“Exactly. Oh.”

Sherlock’s eyes got lost in the horizon as his thoughts tangled into a brilliant order. During those brief moments, he looked as though he was getting lost inside of himself. Almost inaudible, he said:

“My acid experiments. He knows. I’m being watched.”

“What?”

The detective took in a big breath, shaking his head as if he wanted the thoughts to stop hanging off his head before giving the jar to Lestrade.

“What do you see inspector?”

“Sherlock, I’m not here to be ridiculed by your annoying brilliant mind.”

“Well, my bully of a brother does it to me all the time and do I look miserable? Don’t answer that. What I want is you to state the obvious so that it clears my mind of useless thinking.”

Lestrade’s mouth shaped into the beginning of a word but no sound came out. His eyebrows narrowed, his nose wrinkled: dumbfounded.

“Unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

“He was being sarcastically stupefied, Sherlock. As usual, you don’t know how to discern emotions. Not that I had great hope for you in that department.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a big breath, raging, and grateful he wasn’t holding the jar anymore as he might have broke it with his bare hands. Without turning to face the newcomer, he spat vicious sounding words while maintaining eye contact with Lestrade – who clearly looked taken aback.

“Mycroft, whatever you have to say, don’t. And stop approaching trees, no wonder they’re all dying.”

He turned to face his brother whose cane was sinking ever so slightly in the grass. Said brother smiled, but no emotion travelled past his stretched features.

“You forgot to mention the most important detail here.”

“Why are you here, Mycroft. I don’t recall needing you – ever.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Lestrade and Molly just stood there, witnessing the scene, but Sherlock could clearly hear John’s laugh in his head. _Brotherly hardships._

“Oh, I would, brother mine. With that stone of yours people call a heart I doubt helping me is a selfless experience from your perspective.”

_Look at you both, acting twelve._

Sherlock winced a brief second.

“Of course selflessness and good sentiment are becoming your area now.”

_Boys, calm down. We’re trying to solve a case._

“Stop.” Sherlock whispered, holding his head tightly while walking away.

“I think you managed a headache from him, congrats.” Said Lestrade, daring to show his annoyance.

Mycroft smiled.

“He’s going to need me, soon.” He said, his eyes lowering on the finger in the jar before showing signs of departure. “Well, have a good day.” As Sherlock came back, he whispered to him. “And try not to lose yourself in this, Sherlock, I mean it.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip, preventing himself from breaking his nose. If John’s name crossed his lips, he wasn’t sure how this would end. “If you don’t mind, I’m working.”

“Naturally.”

And in a breeze he was gone. The sun was still shinning bright but the atmosphere god weirdly heavy.

“What does he mean, you’ll need him?”

Sherlock sighed, annoyed. His brother was right, he would need him sooner than he anticipated. As much as he hated working with him, the guy was practically the government, and although he had no sympathy in his regards, he was still grateful he had the opportunity. He took the jar back in his hands, pinching his lips. The finger wasn’t bare. A ring adorned it, red in its centre where a tiny stone took place, and of a dusty silver all around it.

“Let’s go back to Bart’s. This needs further examination.”

The DI shook his head in approbation, pocketing his phone as he followed Sherlock, and whilst Molly was reaching for his scarf on the ground.

Silently, Sherlock mumbled. “This, this is all we have. No time to lose.” Grabbing his scarf from Molly’s hands and putting it back around his neck, he grinned, mysterious.

_Stop trying to look cool with your mysterious looks._

Lestrade and Molly’s paces slowed down by his sides, confused, as Sherlock kept on walking, giggling like a lunatic.


	4. Sugar?

“How are you today?”

_Painfully alive. Dreading another day with you around. Missing the sunlight. Disoriented. Missing 221B. Missing my reassuring gun in my back pocket, the sound of Mrs Hudson’s steps as she walked the stairs to come and make wonderful tea for us, the rotten food in the back of the fridge because Sherlock’s experiments took all the space...Sherlock…_

“Fine.”

“Do you want sugar with your coffee today?”

“I don’t take my coffee sugary. I told you that yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.”

_Sherlock knows I don’t take sugar in my coffee. That realisation almost cost me a heart attack. Maybe a heart attack right now wouldn’t be too bad actually. One made of surprise. Come on, Sherlock, what are you waiting for..._

“You’re pensive today, aren’t you, John?”

_My bloody punch in your ugly nose will be pensive too, you moron._

“Where am I?”

“Oh, John, back at it with the same dull question, are you? I already told you there is no use. Aren’t you comfortable here? Do you need sugar with that coffee to bring sense in you?”

John squeezed his fists so tight his joints turned immediately white.

_One more word and this nice porcelain will shatter on your forehead._

“Where. Am. I?”

“So not comfortable then. Do you need a softer quilt on your bed? We can arrange that, you know. I’m no monster.”

John laughed noiselessly.

“I can’t believe it. You. You….bloody...”

“I’d choose my words carefully if I were you. I am a repulsive man on many regards, I must confess, but I am rather nice with my people.”

John’s breathing rose, his face turning red by the second. Either he was going to end up fighting the guy or crying his eyes out.

“Please.”

_Get that smirk out of your face it’s nauseating._

“Why would I tell you?”

“So that I bloody know where the hell I am being held captive?” John burst.

“Oh dear. There is no point. Lucky me, you aren’t Sherlock Holmes. He could probably figure it out, but you...”

John hit the table with his clenched fists, head down, eyes closed, body tensed. He hushed his word.

“ _Don’t._ ” A laugh made out of nightmares forcefully entered his ears. Goosebumps accompanied the change of skin temperature that occurred as he lifted his head again. “Don’t you dare.”

“Look how you care for Sherlock Holmes. I’m almost touched.”

“Don’t you dare talk about him.”

“Why? Oh, I see.” The tall figure walked around a shaky army soldier before two hands landed on his shoulders. “You don’t like people to talk about your partner in crime, your dear….friend. Is it because you feel too much for him? Or is it because he’s the reason you’re stuck here?”

John’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean he’s the reason I’m stuck here?”

A sigh escaped, caressing the back of his head before the pair of hands retrieved to their owner.

“Definitely not Sherlock Holmes. You still haven’t figured this out, have you? You think of me as some bad guy who abducted you for the sake of it.”

_I think of you as an abominable human being giving a hard time to another one for no reason._

“You’re here, because I want Mr. Holmes to find you.”

John let out a confused giggle.

“Why, is that a game to you? What are you doing outside of this room?”

Slightly yellow but straight teeth showed themselves as the guy sat on the edge of the table, crossing his arms.

“I like to watch him dance. Oh, we said it would be funny. It would be delightful to watch the great Sherlock Holmes lose control as his pet is missing.”

John’s nails dug into the table.

_We?_

“What did you do.” He asked, more as an affirmation, threat in his voice though useless.

The man giggled.

“He likes deducing. I like puzzles. He better solve them all if he hopes to see you again.”

“So what, you’re giving him cases? I don’t understand.”

“You should have that be made your motto. But I can see why Holmes likes you. You ask questions, he gives answers. Well he better answer my question, or he’ll have little to be asked for in the future.”

 

“Take the jar with you, don’t ask questions I can see your eyebrows lifting without facing you.”

Lestrade stopped in front of the cab that had just arrived, Molly right behind him, the pair of them wearing a confused look. Sherlock didn’t bother to turn while he talked then opened the door.

“Take in as many informations about the ring as you can. I want to know what material it is made out of, the components, the effects of the sun on the particles if any, things like that, corrosion through sweat perhaps, the brand if you can recognize it and if so an address, the number of scratches if any with details about the depth, the price of the average stone, how much it weights and down to the tiniest rash on the skin I want data all the data. Take pictures, multiple angles, with and without the finger and for God’s sake, don’t let Anderson take them or they’ll be painfully useless.”

Flabbergasted, Lestrade let his arms form wings as his high pitched words came out of his mouth.

“Why the bloody hell don’t you come with us now?”

“I need to think.” Sherlock answered, closing the cab’s door on Lestrade’s protests.

Sherlock asked the cabbie to stop the music and sat comfortably, a leg on top of the other and two anxious fingers playing with his bottom lip as his gaze locked with the outside view. Sunlight made his eyes go different shades of blue, green, hints of greys and the tiniest bits of brown in bright strikes as the buildings passed by. He had wanted out of Baker Street for forever, but now that he had an occasion to land his feet somewhere else than on forcefully vacuumed floors all he wanted to do was come back. His brain and himself were having an argument. He needed to sort his head out before he could make any progress at all with the case, with John. He closed his eyes, long eyelashes dancing under the pressure of his tired eyelids. His knuckles cracked as he realised his hand was tensed into a fist. An urge to bite into his own skin made an appearance but he brushed it, foolish, he was losing it. Everything was confusing, he needed air, he needed answers, he needed John. Usually, in moments like this, John would look at him with the faintest smile and Sherlock would know everything was going to be okay. In his presence, he felt safer, reassured. God knows he would never confess it to anyone except the man himself – and he had, in his own way – but John was essential to his well-being. He’d tell him when to eat, when to rest, when it was time to act and when it was not, when it was good to talk and when it wasn’t the right timing. He was the move that completed the reasoning, the voice that finished the thought, the heart that, sometimes, needed to stop the brain. Confused him. Soothed him.

The detective brought his hands in front of his face, massaging his temples and eyebrows. His headache was coming back full force and he started to think he might even need to stop the cab. Hot waves ate at his limbs, beads of sweat started to hang from his forehead. Dizziness took over his overheating brain and a faint moan escaped his throat, a mix of anger, desperation and pain.

“’You alright mate?” The cabbie asked, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Yes...I...Just pull over there.”

His shaky hands handed cash to the driver whose eyes looked concerned – and shocked at the amount he gave him in his hurry, easily covering two or three rides – before he clumsily got out of the cab, his breath unsteady, his body hot and uncomfortably sore. Sherlock leaned on the nearest wall, unaware of the pedestrians passing by, trying to focus on what was happening to him. His heart felt as though it was about to burst, his limbs felt mushy and awkward, his head felt heavy and his breathing difficult, but above all a rising sensation of pure fear and illogical thoughts took over his mind. In the middle of this chaos happening internally, he gathered all the facts: racing heart, dizziness and weakness, tingles in his fingers, unexplained terror, sweat, loss of control, breathing difficulties. If he wasn’t so busy trying to convince himself he wasn’t actually dying, he would be laughing at his own deduction.

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and his whole body dropped within itself.

“John?”

It couldn’t be. He knew that.

“You’re just having a panic attack, you need to lay down and calm yourself before you hyperventilate.”

He knew that. He knew how astonishingly strong a panic attack could feel and how to stop it, but his heart raced even more at the sound of John’s voice.

_Intense anxiety can cause not only fear, but symptoms that create further fear. In many ways, intense anxiety can cause the feeling of going crazy - as though you are losing touch with reality. Sometimes this is nothing more than a feeling or thought. Other times this is caused by additional anxiety symptoms that resemble those of true psychosis._

“I know, John, I know.”

“Sorry mate, are you okay? Who are you talking to?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. He had fallen on his knees, leaning against the hard brick wall, shaking and looking distressed.

“Nobody.” He answered with a hint of questioning in his voice, his eyes fixed on the ground where he had thought John was standing.

It was painful. More so than he had imagined. John had stood there, right before his eyes, and now every time he closed them the black curtain of nothingness showed the shape of the doctor, as if his retinas had burned, his silhouette forever printed in a lie.

“I’m fine.” He said as the walker presented his hand in an effort to help him stand. “Thank you.”

The guy left with a small worried smile and Sherlock couldn’t help but picture John’s when he got himself into trouble – without him. Being in a delicate position never seemed to bother the shorter man if he was included into the equation.

Sherlock sighed heavily, trying to concentrate back into reality. He wasn’t far from 221B, a ten minute walk at best, and after straightening his coat and sniffing his incomprehension, he started walking, hands in his pockets.

It had been a funny surprise, having his brain imagining John’s answers and input as if he had never really left, but he now wasn’t so sure about the fun factor of it all anymore. If anything, it was making him nervous, and nervousness wasn’t an emotion Sherlock was particularly fond of. Tension during a chase in town, fine, restlessness due to intriguing cases, no problem, but actual nervousness, doubt, fear, he couldn’t deal with it properly, he knew that, that’s why he needed John. He, out of all people, could help him calm down and prevent those emotions from rising in the first place or having to be dealt with...illegally. Improperly. In harms way. But the one man he precisely needed was the one that made him feel all of it. Well, he wasn’t the one, not really, the bastard responsible for his abduction on the other hand…

Accelerating his pace, he made his way through the crowd with anger, blaming the air his rapid legs created while walking for the single tear that menaced to fall in the corner of his right eye. He needed to get home.

Storming in the flat, he barely noticed Mrs Hudson asking for informations.

“Sherlock, dear, you look awful. Tell me what’s going on, please?”

He paused at the top of the stairs, short of breath, and turned slowly without making eye contact with the landlady.

“A blur, Mrs Hudson. It’s like getting into water without getting wet. The result of such an act should be obvious and yet, it remains a mystery.”

Mrs Hudson frowned, her heart shaped mouth semi open.

“You and your funny little sentences, you-”

“This..is unfortunately, not, funny, Mrs Hudson. You know who I am.”

“And I know you should be careful mister. Have you been up to no good again? You really look pale.”

Sherlock hushed a sigh and hurried in the flat, slamming the door shut with his foot. He was shaking and walking aimlessly like a lunatic, his hands joined in front of his face. He closed his eyes and started mumbling, his pace less frantic.

“Like walking into a fire and not burning...Pain...”

He opened his eyes and saw his reflection in the mirror, his expression blank if not for his horrible skin tone.

“Like..a reflection without a soul...”

“ _Wouldn’t that be funny, if you had no soul? That would explain a lot.”_

“ _Leave me alone! Let me go!”_

“ _Sherlock is a weirdo! Sherlock is a weirdo!”_

_Sherlock screamed for help whilst his attacker kicked his knee, making him fall on the dirty ground. He made eye contact with another boy, red jumper and blue jeans, but he didn’t move, just stared._

“ _Help me, please!”_

“ _Who do you think will help you here? No one likes you. You’re a looser!”_

_A second pair of hands proceeded to punch his chest but he managed to grab the blonde haired boy’s wrist before he could finish his action._

“ _Let me go! Please, I didn’t do anything to you!”_

“ _You didn’t do anything to us? Ha! Every day, it’s a new story. How dare you say my mum is cheating on my dad!”_

“ _And I don’t have a weird fetish!”_

“ _I’m – I’m just observing, it’s not my fault if you don’t see-”_

“ _Piss off!”_

_Sherlock hushed a scream as a sharp pain rose in his chest. The blonde boy managed to get to him after all._

“ _One day, Sherlock, you know what’s gonna happen?”_

_The sixteen year old rolled on his side, holding his ribs, trying not to cry. He didn’t want them to have the satisfaction and as such, wasn’t facing them either._

“ _One day, we’ll check if you have a soul. And we’ll do that by ending you. Maybe if you have one, it will be less annoying and arrogant than you!”_

_Laughter rose in the air, then nothing._

“ _Souls are just theoretical, Sherlock, don’t let them fool you.” Sherlock balanced his feet absently. His brother sitting on the rock by his side. He sighed. “Did you know the soul was first really research by ancient Greeks, Plato of course, in his treatise the Republic-”_

“ _And with the chariot allegory in Phaedrus, yes, I read too.”_

_Mycroft smiled, his eyes squinting because of the sun._

“ _What’s wrong with me?”_

_His brother laughed._

“ _Wrong question. What’s wrong with them would be a better one.”_

_Sherlock half smiled, his ribs still sore from bruising._

“ _Do you think I have a soul?”_

_Mycroft sighed, kicking his legs in unison._

“ _When in doubt, do you know what I do?” Sherlock nodded negatively. “I look in the mirror. Strange thing, your reflection. Indicates your outside self but if you watch carefully, you can detect your inner self. If you feel lost, really lost, look at yourself in the mirror and observe. What do you see? How do you feel?”_

_Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t really look at myself often.”_

“ _Do it. You are used to observing others, why not do it with yourself?”_

“ _How does that answer my question anyway?”_

_Mycroft smiled, considering taking his brother’s hand in his before brushing the idea away. “You’re an emotional boy, Sherlock. Don’t let it fool you. If you need answers, you can find them by yourself. You’re smart enough. Control yourself.”_

“ _Why should I be the one controlling myself? I’m tired of having to fake my own existence!”_

_Mycroft chuckled before raising a suggestive eyebrow. “See what I mean?”_

_Sherlock sighed heavily, taking his head in his hand as he brought his legs back close to him._

“ _My reflection...”_

“My reflection.”

Sherlock walked in front of the mirror. What he saw, he already knew. But this time, it was clear as day. He wasn’t preoccupied. He wasn’t annoyed because of the case. It was not about the case, nothing had ever been about the case. He was scared. Truly scared. For John. And he knew the abductor would make him suffer for being emotional. But for the first time in his life, Sherlock did not care. He was emotional, Mycroft had been right. He had always known. But this time, he wouldn’t let it stop him, he wouldn’t bury his feelings down. No, this time, he would make it count. He would save John Watson, and make it _count_.


End file.
